


Why I killed him

by dancey94



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Drugs, Episode: s01e01 Apéritif, M/M, Manipulation, POV First Person, POV Hannibal Lecter, POV Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 14:03:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16198991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancey94/pseuds/dancey94
Summary: When Jack Crawford came to my office, I didn’t expect that.When he invited me to his office a few days later, I definitely didn’t expectthat, either.





	Why I killed him

**Author's Note:**

> What if Will caught on a bit early to who Hannibal was? What if Hannibal used drugs, mind tricks and manipulation to get Will on his side? What if Abigail didn't die?

When Jack Crawford came to my office, I didn’t expect that. When he invited me to his office a few days later, I definitely didn’t expect _that_ , either.

He had explained that the FBI was looking for a serial killer who abducted young girls. I had an opportunity to see their faces in Crawford’s office, to make what I could of them, to find the pattern. There was not yet a conception in my mind as to why the killer was choosing those girls.

As I was trying to figure out the similarities and differences between them, a less than handsome man was sitting by Crawford’s desk. We had been introduced barely a moment before but he didn’t present an interest in making a friend.

Will Graham was his name and, as I said and as I thought at the first glance, he was less than handsome. He was extremely clever, though. As I was standing by the board with the pictures of the abducted girls, Crawford explained that someone from the Duluth Police Department had posted a picture of the last victim. For the first time during that meeting, Graham spoke and his only word was “tasteless.” I wondered why he had chosen that specific word but I didn’t want him to feel ambushed or tested so I only asked, “Do you have trouble with taste?”

Perhaps he knew exactly what I was doing. Perhaps he had no idea. But he confessed that his thoughts were often not tasty. I could relate to that, although the last thought I had was exquisitely delicious.

“No effective barriers,” I prompted.

“I build forts,” he replied quickly. I was impressed.

“Associations come quickly,” I said, pleased.

“So do forts,” he said and I could almost taste his own pride.

Then, I realised something. He had barely looked at me. He was not looking at me when he spoke. He was avoiding my eyes when I responded. I reached for the mug with coffee.

“Not fond of eye contact, are you?” I asked casually and took a sip. I was staring at him openly now, challenging him. I wondered if he faced me.

“Eyes are distracting,” he explained, still looking away. “You see too much, you don’t see enough. And it’s hard to focus when you’re thinking, um,” he elaborated and finally he made eye contact. For a second there, he hesitated. Then, he continued, mocking, ”Oh, those whites are really white, or he must have hepatitis or oh, is that a burst vein?”

I smiled at him and this time it was me who broke eye contact. Instead, I looked at his body, deliberately hidden under a plaid tasteless shirt. Suddenly, I appreciated him. All of him.

“So, yeah, I try to avoid eyes whenever possible,” he concluded, looking away, tired of facing me. He called for Crawford in hope to be rescued. But I wasn’t having any of that. The confrontation was far from over.

“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind,” I stated. That got his attention. “Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams.”

I watched him consider my words and I knew I was right. I was always right. The question was whether he would hang down his head, intimidated, or accept the challenge.

“No forts in the bone arena of your skull for things you love,” I continued shamelessly.

Finally, he couldn’t stand it anymore. My honesty overwhelmed him. “Whose profile are you working on?” he asked, looking straight into my eyes; then he turned to Crawford and asked him the same.

He was a fighter. He wouldn’t be intimidated by the simple truth.

“I’m sorry, Will. Observing is what we do,” I apologised, not meaning it one bit. I knew he was aware of that. “I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off.”

I must have looked pleased, I couldn’t help it. That man had been hiding from me for my whole life. And he was revealed to me in a case of a different cannibalistic killer. If he solved that case, if he found that man, I was in a serious danger. And I loved it. I loved every nanosecond of the tension in him that I caused.

“Please, don’t psychoanalyse me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalysed,” he said to Crawford. To him, our conversation was over. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go give a lecture on psychoanalysing.”

And just like that, he grabbed his bag and left the office. I regained my composure.

Crawford warned me that challenging Will like that wasn’t very wise. But I disagreed. I didn’t tell him that, of course, but I knew I wouldn’t be telling him many things. I promised him, though, that I would help Will see the face of our killer.

 

I couldn’t be there to see Will’s face when he saw my gift but I imagined his eyes catching every detail, every missing piece as he realised that was not another victim of the Minnesota Shrike. I took Marissa Shuur’s lungs while she was still alive. She didn’t deserve them. I, on the other hand, put them to good use. I imagined how Will, called by Crawford at the crime scene, would enumerate the differences between the Shrike’s and mine designs. I had no traceable motive. I fit into the pattern of another killer but distinctly enough to be distinguishable. I will not kill that way again.

 

The cheap motel he stayed in amplified his sense of outward ordinariness. When I knocked, I started questioning whether he was truly as brilliant as I thought.

He opened the door dressed in a plain white t-shirt and a pair of boxer shorts. I marvelled at his unconscious ability to throw me off guard.

“Good morning, Will. May I come in?” I realised, as I spoke, that we never really agreed to be on the first name basis. But since our very first meeting in Crawford’s office, I only ever thought of that less than handsome profiler as Will.

He looked me in the eyes, then looked away and asked where Crawford was.

“Deposed in court. The adventure is yours and mine today,” I explained. I glanced inside and asked again, “May I come in?”

He didn’t reply. His eyes were running from my eyes to my lips. He stepped back inside and I followed. I offered him the right to decency as I busied myself with closing the doors behind me. He got dressed – he put on a pair of trousers – and we sat down by the table. I unpacked the breakfast I had made for us.

“I’m very careful about what I put into my body, which means I end up preparing most meals myself. A little protein scramble to start the day. Some eggs, some sausage.”

I spoke casually and watched as Will had the first bite of the sausage. Before he could refrain himself, Will’s face showed me his opinion about the food. He looked at the contents of the bowl I had given him in brief contemplation.

“It’s delicious. Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” I replied. It really was. I observed with mad fascination as Will moved scramble eggs from the bowl onto a plate. I needed to see him eat the meal I had prepared. I needed to see him consume my gift. His face was lit only partially by the sun struggling to get to the room by the barely open curtains.

“I would apologise for my analytical ambush, but I know I will soon be apologising again and you’ll tire of that eventually, so I have to consider using apologies sparingly.”

“Just keep it professional,” he responded so quickly as if he’d known that I was going to say that. His eyelashes fluttered furiously as he did so.

“Or we could socialise like adults,” I opposed. “God forbid we become friendly.” I meant that.

“I don’t find you that interesting,” he responded, looking into his cup of coffee. Was he being ignorant or just acting so proudly to hurt me on purpose? I didn’t know.

“You will,” I countered, shamelessly. And I continued eating, pretending I hadn’t just thrown Will off balance. I didn’t even blink. I simply kept our conversation going on a different subject. “Agent Crawford tell me you have a knack for the monsters.”

Will stopped eating, put down his fork, and pushed away his plate. “I don’t think the Shrike killed that girl in the field.”

That had me interested. I was tempted to drop my act but I knew I had to take it a little bit further if I wanted Will to complete the test.

“The devil is in the details,” I said. “What didn’t your copycat do to the girl in the field? What gave it away?”

“Everything.” Will made a desperate gesture with his open palm in an attempt to illustrate that the whole scene I had prepared was a fake, a sloppy forgery of the original killer. Then, he rubbed his mouth and elaborated without even trying to conceal his disgust for the copycat. “It’s like he had to show me a negative so that I could see the positive. It…” He covered his face with his palms and rubbed his eyes. There was tiredness and annoyance in his movements. I wondered if my presence added much to his uneasiness. “That crime scene was practically gift-wrapped.”

“The mathematics of human behaviour…all those ugly variables,” I commented.

Meanwhile, Will poured himself some more coffee.

“Some bad math with this Shrike fellow, huh?” I asked and with the corner of my eye I saw Will glance at me. “Are you reconstructing his fantasies? What kind of problems does he have?”

He didn’t seem to be taking me seriously. “Uh, he has a few,” he replied and sipped the coffee.

“You ever have any problems, Will?”

He smiled, pointed at himself in a mocking gesture, and said, “No.”

“Of course you don’t. You and I are just alike. Problem-free. Nothing about us to feel horrible about.”

I watched him devour another mouthful of the scrambled eggs. The irony. I wondered whether he wished to be unburdened of his problems or if he would accept more, given how sarcastic he treated that human condition.

“You know, Will…” God, I loved the sound of his name. It vibrated deep in my chest and in every atom of the oxygen in the room. I could repeat it forever for God to hear and be humbled by his own creation. “I think uncle Jack sees you as a fragile little teacup.”

He looked at me with this charming smile which was soon to turn into an open laugh. I continued, glad that I managed to amuse him, “The finest china used for only special guests.”

The way he laughed out loud. It wasn’t a laugh at a particularly funny joke. Nor was it a laugh of surprise. It was a full-on amused burst at my unsuitable metaphor. At least that’s what he believed it to be. Finally, it was a laugh that gave him a tool – a distraction – that he could use to ask _me_ how I saw him.

Without a blink, I replied, “The mongoose I want under the house when the snakes slither by.”

His eyes were looking straight into mine, unchanging. Then, he frowned. I wondered if he knew. If already back then he was aware who I was. I wondered if the frown would disappear and if his mouth would hang open at the realisation.

None of those things happened.

The crease on his forehead vanished, yes, but he simply sat back in his chair and waited. He looked out the window, then back at me. His arms were resting along the armrests.

“Have you ever killed anyone, Will?” I asked. I was almost finished with my breakfast but I supposed the time of eating was up. I pushed away my bowl and looked him dead in the eyes.

“Can’t you tell?” he asked casually, as if he was not challenging me.

It was no more than a glimpse but I noticed him turn his eyes into the direction where I suspected he’d hidden his gun. He was playing it cool while calculating whether he could defeat me. I was more interested in whether he could outsmart me.

“You try to run away from the nightmares that haunt you but have you ever tried facing them? Encouraging them? Inducing–”

“Let me stop you right there.” His voice was firm, his eyes shifting between my eyes and cheeks. “Whatever pitch you’ve prepared, it’s not going to work. So if you want to kill me, you’ll have to fight me.”

I made no move. Neither did he.

“Will…”I began but was so astounded by his attitude that I couldn’t find the rest of the words. His brows rose at my hesitation. “I’ve never met anyone even close to who you are. You read me as I can read you. I don’t intend to kill you,” I said, holding my hands out.

“You have to ‘cause now I know your little secret.”

“You can’t prove anything,” I reasoned. He nodded, sighing. It was a quiet acknowledgement of defeat. But we both knew it was about more than evidence that could be presented in court. It was about justice on his end and recognition on mine. I wouldn’t let him go, not now that he’d passed my test. He figured me out. He was an empath. I could finally open myself to someone.

“What do you want?” he asked.

And I couldn’t think of a better answer than: “For you to join me.”

I watched as a frown appeared on his forehead. He looked out the window again and I wondered if he was calculating something else now. Perhaps the advantages and disadvantages of being my ally. Or maybe a sign he’d have to give to attract attention to his motel room that sunny morning.

“I already told you I’d fight you.”

“Perhaps I can find a way to persuade you not to.”

He looked at the almost empty plate before him. No, I hadn’t poisoned the food. He must have realised that because he smiled. He smiled at his own foolishness.

Then, his eyes focused on my palm resting on the table. He looked me in the eyes and slowly, as if approaching a wild animal, moved his hand to cover my palm. I could feel the roughness and the warmth of his skin on mine. It was exhilarating. The gentleness of his touch combined with the intensity of his gaze had me hypnotised. But not enough to miss what he was doing.

I caught his other hand before he managed to reach for the knife. He grabbed my wrist and tried to twist it but I already had his neck in grasp. We both stood up from our seats. I kept pressing on his trachea while he attempted to escape my hold. Finally, he lifted his leg and kicked me. I allowed that. In fact, I was counting on that.

While he, on the brink of fainting, stumbled for the gun, I reached for the syringe in my bag. It was almost too easy. From behind I drove the syringe into his neck and injected him with a powerful narcotic. Then I wrapped my arms around Will tightly. He dropped to his knees, I with him, and murmured something. It was painful to watch him desperately struggle not to give in but he was forced to, eventually.

I held him in my arms as he lost consciousness.

 

I knew the excuse I’d made up – that Will was confronted with a terrible illness – could buy me enough time to take him home and not be bothered by Crawford. I had dressed Will in one of my pyjamas and tucked him in my own bed. He was in my house.

I promised the FBI I would think about the case more while Will was going to rest and get back to normal. For a moment there I was glad that I was a substitute for Will.

It turned out that the FBI couldn’t find anything or anyone that would help move the case forward. I was asked to come to Quantico and look through some files. They hoped I would see something they couldn’t. I supposed Will could. But before Crawford managed to reach him, I proposed I’d talk to Will.

I injected him with another dosage and left him in bed, where he’d spent the last few days, slipping in and out of delusions. Then, I went to meet Crawford and take the files they’d compiled. I brought them back home to examine them with Will once he woke up and I had him on my side.

When I returned, he was still fast asleep. I made us dinner and called Crawford to inform him that Will was still out of shape but I would try to help clear his head, which was the exact opposite of what I was doing.

I sat down in a chair by the bed I’d tucked Will in with a pile of files in hand. I began reading the information aloud, making brief pauses to check if he was still asleep. At some point, I noticed that his eyes were open but as if behind a haze. He was staring at the ceiling, breathing deeply.

“Will?”

I waited for any kind of response but none came. He didn’t even blink. I put down the files and slowly reached for his wrist. His pulse was still a bit higher than it should have been but I decided he was regaining stability. Physically, at least.

I helped him sit up and fed him some soup. He was responsive, just not fully aware of what was happening to him yet.

 “Will? Do you recognise me? Do you recognise this place?”

He couldn’t have. He’d never been there. And the possibility of him getting confused and gradually mad due to his inability to recognise his surroundings was a tempting prospect, I had to admit. But I didn’t want to lose him; I didn’t want to have to sacrifice him like I did Miss Lass. She was a collateral. A gift from the FBI. A threat turned into a tool which I was yet to use.

So in order to avoid confusion and make Will even more pliant, I planted suggestions that this house was his sanctuary. While he was in and out of sleep, I kept talking to him. Bach’s suites and sonatas accompanied my voice.

It was my home but the walls around us were protective of him as well. My home was his shield against all harm.

I kept repeating that until he believed it, even though he was high for the most part.

So when I asked again if he knew where he was, he nodded. He didn’t recognise the walls around him per se but he understood he was safe.

I smiled at him and reached for his hand. When I squeezed, he didn’t object.

“Jack Crawford wants to see you.”

“Jack…” he repeated. His eyes wandered all over the room until they rested on the pile of files on the nightstand.

“I told him you’d be glad to have him visit tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow. Yes.”

“Come, Will. Let me take you to your home now.”

I helped him out of bed and gave him his clothes – washed, dried and ironed. The gentleman I was, I left the room. I took my car keys, packed some food into the car and headed for the hall to wait there. As I opened the front door, Will was dressed up and ready to leave.

He was still a bit drowsy on our way to Wolf Trap, half-aware of his own self, I presumed.

Yet, when we got there, his eyes widened and his lips parted. For a split second I was worried that all my tricks and manipulations perished, all because Will’s mentality was bound to his own home that strongly.

“The dogs,” he said, gaping at the porch. He unfastened the seatbelt but remained in the seat.

“I took care of them for you.”

He nodded in silent appreciation of my help. I looked at him, trying to assess whether he’d call Crawford the minute he crossed the threshold or if he’d go mad alone in that house or, maybe, if he’d ask me to stay. I’d spent the last few days acting like a safe bay for him and now was the time to find out if I was successful.

He took a deep breath and got out of the car. After taking a few steps, he stopped.

I didn’t want to push him, not this time. I only wondered if he was slowly recovering from my unorthodox treatment.

Then, he turned to me, smiled at me, and moved forwards.

As if returning after a long day at work, he simply took out the key from his pocket and opened the door. The dogs welcomed him warmly: they jumped, barked and wiggled their tails. I watched as, with a sigh, he knelt down and hugged them – one by one and all together.

“I missed you, too,” he said.

Purposefully, I waited for him to speak first. I was not going to stay uninvited but I was not going to leave until he told me to.

Then, he stood up, smoothed his trousers and turned to me with a frown. His eyes met mine when he smiled.

“Hobbs,” was all he said.

“Hobbs?”

“Garret Jacob Hobbs. The files you read to me. There was a phone number but no address. The others all left addresses.”

“He has something to hide.”

“Maybe. It may just as well be bad bookkeeping.”

“But we’re not going to risk it, are we?”

“No. You should tell Crawford to pay Hobbs a visit.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Why not tell him yourself when he comes tomorrow?”

“Can we risk sitting on possibly valuable information all through the night?”

“Jack will not send the team if all you have is a hunch.”

“Are you suggesting we go on our own?”

“Tomorrow, Will. You still need some rest.”

“I’m…”

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes; when he opened them, he smiled again. There was something he rejected, something he blocked and would not let me know what it was. So again, I didn’t push. Not yet.

“Will you come along with Jack?” he asked.

“Do you want me to?”

The whole time, he sustained eye contact. I was impressed. I managed to recode him and in less than a week.

“Yes,” he replied in a deep voice.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He nodded. There was so little in him of that Will Graham I’d met in Crawford’s office the week before. But I knew it was temporary unless I continued the treatment. Which, of course, I would do.

He didn’t stop me when I left his house.

 

As I was lying in bed, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. I’d left him alone in his house after almost a week of encouraging hallucinations and blackouts. By the end I managed to persuade him that I was his friend. I talked to him about the case, as I promised Crawford, and in the process of figuring out the killer, I learnt just how grotesque Will perceived his own mind to be.

When I fell asleep I still had his image behind my eyelids. If he continued to be prone to my suggestions, we could soon become quite a pair.

 

I arrived at his house early in the morning. He was sitting on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, with a cup of coffee in hand. The dogs were running around.

“Hello, Will.”

As he looked at me, I saw serenity spilling out of him. “Hello, doctor Lecter.”

He didn’t stand up to greet me but the dogs gathered around me. They had got used to me and the treats I always brought them. That day was no exception.

“I made us breakfast. Shall we go inside?”

With the cup still in his hand, Will stood up and opened the door for me.

As we ate, I observed his half-closed eyes and tongue running over his lips. He was as delighted by my food as I was by watching him eat it. At some point, slowly, he lifted his face to look at me. For the first time ever, I was intimidated by someone’s gaze.

He was still chewing when our eyes met. Strangely, I was the one to break eye contact.  

“When is Jack coming?” he asked me.

“He’s not.”

Will frowned but didn’t ask any more questions.

So I continued, “I called him and told him about your hunch. He said we should investigate but he already has a suspect. They’re going to his house as we speak.”

Will nodded. Then, as if something awoke in him, he started shaking his head violently. “No, no, no. That’s not right. None of the files seemed fishy apart from Hobbs’.”

I smiled at his persistence. We both knew that it was not a hunch that told him to pursue Hobbs. It was inexplicable conviction which would not be overturned until proven void. There was something about Hobbs that made his file stand out, that made Will remember it and fish it out of the pile.

“Finish your breakfast and we’ll be on our way.”

 

What I didn’t tell Will was that I also called Hobbs.

It was a long way to Minnesota and Will proposed we took turns. We were driving the whole day and on our last stop, quite close to Hobbs’ house already, I made the call.

Truthfully, I was curious what would happen.

Halfway there, I called Crawford because Will had insisted and we found out that the guy they apprehended was not confessing. It only confirmed Will in his belief that they had the wrong guy.

With the twilight approaching, Will parked the car on the driveway. We got out and headed for the front door when, suddenly, they opened and a man threw a bleeding woman on the doorstep, then disappeared inside the house.

I watched as Will ran to the woman but it was too late. She bled to death in his arms.

He took his gun and kicked the door open. I followed.

“Garret Jacob Hobbs! FBI!”

I watched him strive to remember the training he’d got. His first steps were hesitant but then he tightened the grip on the gun and moved more firmly forward. Right to the kitchen where the man held a knife to a young woman’s throat.

Will narrowed his eyes and focused on the aim. The girl was shaking, creaming. Hobbs was holding her and whispering something to her. When he was about to cut her throat, Will shot.

The girl fell on the floor. Hobbs’ arm was injured but he didn’t drop the knife. Quite the opposite – he hoped to finish the job. But before he could, Will shot again. And again. And again.

When Hobbs collapsed, Will knelt by the girl who was sobbing and trembling. She was looking at her dad as he passed away with four bullets in his body. Will hugged her, pressed her into his chest with her head away from the terrible sight.

As he was rocking her gently in his arms, our eyes met. He smiled.

He had just defeated a monster single-handedly.

I smiled back and knelt next to him. I examined the girl and was happy to affirm that she was alright. Physically, at least. Just like Will.

 

After the police along with the FBI took out statements and secured the crime scene, after the medical officers took care of us, we were left alone, wrapped in blankets. The three of us were standing in the yard, watching the lights of the cars fade into the night.

“Abigail, would you like to stay at my house for some time?” I offered. She was an orphan now. She had no one. Her house was a crime scene. But she was an adult and could make her own decisions.

She nodded and got into my car. I knew it would take her a while to acknowledge what had happened.

Then, I turned to Will. His breath was not shallow, his hands or legs were not shaking. He met my gaze and raised his eyebrows.

“How did killing Hobbs make you feel?” I asked.

His eyes shifted to the girl in my car. I wondered if I had to proceed with my unorthodox treatment or if Will would accept that part of himself which felt good about punishing bad people.

“Righteous.”

I couldn’t help smiling at that answer. Neither could he when he saw my reaction.

“You saved her life. You also orphaned her. That comes with certain emotional obligations.”

“I see you know what you’re talking about.” He glanced again in Abigail’s direction.

“I do feel a staggering amount of obligation. I feel responsibility. And it would be beneficial for all of us if we could share it.”

“What are you suggesting, doctor?”

“That you come and stay with me as well. Stay with _us_.”

**Author's Note:**

> *waves* hello to my all new readers that subscribed during my absence :)  
> i'm sorry if that's not what You were expecting but i'm really striving here  
> i've been out of writing because, well, life...  
> i'm writing more now and, hopefully, someone will still be there when it's ready  
> i love You all, guys <333


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